


Dancing Queen

by convolutedConcussion



Category: Wynonna Earp (TV)
Genre: Dolls Dances And I Cry, F/M, Fancy Dress like Whoa, Pre-Relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-14
Updated: 2016-06-14
Packaged: 2018-07-15 03:07:22
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,266
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7203998
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/convolutedConcussion/pseuds/convolutedConcussion
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The quiet between them is so heavy it almost muffles the laughter and conversation around them.  Eventually, she has to break the silence, “So, are you gonna ask me to dance?  It’ll help our cover.”</p>
<p>“’Cover,’” he repeats, raising an eyebrow.  “Everyone here knows who you are.”</p>
<p>“Shit, right,” she huffs.  “Damn small towns.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Dancing Queen

**Author's Note:**

> Very short, very self-indulgent (they always are). Dolls dancing with the vampire/succubus thing wasn't _enough_ and I need _more_.

“Stop doing that,” Wynonna orders, self-consciously combing her fingers through her hair.

From the driver’s seat, Dolls tosses her a frown. “What?”

“Looking at me like an alien,” she mumbles.

She watches him tug on his bowtie.  “I don’t think you’re an alien.”

“Yeah, your mouth is saying that,” she says suspiciously, “But your eyes are telling a different story.”

They drive in silence for a while before he responds, “You clean up nice, Earp.”

“Oh,” she huffs, chewing the inside of her cheek.  “You’re, uh, not looking terrible yourself.  You look uncomfortable as hell, though.”

“This tux is uncomfortable as hell,” he laughs.

Neither of them speaks until he drives up to the venue, where she whispers, “Sure wish I had a thigh-holster.”

“Yeah,” he scoffs.  “No one would notice Peacemaker under _that._ ”  He gestures at her dress which is, admittedly, not exactly made to conceal a gun.  “Just be cool,” he soothes, rolling down his window to take the valet ticket the attendant offers.

She slides out of her seat with minimal help from him, threads her arm through his as they make their way up to the entrance.  “I’m the symbol of cool right now,” she tells him.  “I’d like a drink or five, but I’m cool.  This is a set-up, and I’m being _very cool_ about it.”  Inside, they take off their coats, and Wynonna is painfully aware of—of her bare arms, the deep V of the neckline, the way Dolls guides her with a hand on her lower back as if this was a _thing_.  She’s too-warm where he’s touching her and her face feels hot.  “Yeah, I’m gonna need that drink now,” she mumbles, craning to find the bar over the heads of the other guests.

“Looks like your sister’s already here,” he murmurs, staring off to their left.

“That’s not what I requested,” she huffs, letting him lead her over to where Waverly is standing near one of those ridiculous high tables next to—“Holy shit, Nicole?”

The cop—who she’s never seen wearing anything but a uniform—looks like she’s never seen her before, hair twisted elegantly instead of in a braid, in a strapless black dress that sweeps the floor.  She dips her head a little, pleased smile not quite hidden.  “Lookin’ good,” she finally says.

“Jesus, you too, what the hell?” she blurts.  Waverly’s gaping at her and she shakes her head, “Not that this is entirely outside of the realm of possibility but…  Anyway.”

Dolls’ brushes her arm, whispers into her hair, “I’ll be right back.”

“Uh-huh,” she answers vaguely.  This sort of thing has been happening with alarming frequency—feeling him too close, the words spoken lowly enough that she can only _just_ hear because he’s _right there_ , the gentle spread of heat it evokes.  Eventually, she shakes her head sharply and laughs, “Talk about no personal bubble.”

Nicole looks between the sisters for a moment before saying, “I’m gonna go get some drinks.”  Her heels click as she disappears into the growing crowd.

“Wyn,” Waverly starts cautiously.  “He sorta only does that with you.”

Frowning, Wynonna doesn’t answer.  She raps her knuckles on the smooth tabletop, staring at the candle at the center of the tablecloth.  That can’t be right.  Except—maybe it is.  The guy’s never quite so much of a close talker with anyone else.  Worrying her lip with her teeth, she misses it when Dolls and Nicole return at the same time, only realizing it when a tumbler slides in front of her.

“Oh,” she sighs, tone mock-dreamy.  “My hero.”

He twists his lips a little crookedly.  “I aim to please,” he responds, voice strangely low and rich.

Nudging her shoulder, Waverly whispers, “Nicole and I are gonna go…”  She stops and Wynonna realizes she was kind of staring at Dolls.

Schooling her expression, she nods, waves lightly at Nicole.  Suddenly, she feels vulnerable, embarrassed.  Her sister leaves, Nicole in tow, and she turns her attention back at the man at her side.

“Are you drinking sparkling water?” she teases, tossing back the admittedly awesome whiskey.  He snorts into his glass.  Their arms are close enough that his cuff brushes her wrist.  Sliding her hand away just enough that it puts about an inch between them.  “Why, um—why are you so close to me?” she asks in a rush.

Dolls’ eyes widen and there’s something in his eyes she almost recognizes before he steps away.  “Sorry,” he says, frowning but not looking at her.  “I didn’t reali—”

“No, that’s not what I… meant,” she interrupts, closing the space between them.  “I just—never mind, you know?  It’s.  It’s not a big deal, I’m not…”

_Smooth_.

Brow furrowing, she looks down at the table, traces her fingers over the soft cloth.  The quiet between them is so heavy it almost muffles the laughter and conversation around them.  Eventually, she has to break the silence, “So, are you gonna ask me to dance?  It’ll help our cover.”

“’Cover,’” he repeats, raising an eyebrow.  “Everyone here knows who you are.”

“Shit, right,” she huffs.  “Damn small towns.”

He takes a long drink of whatever it was he’d actually gotten (she’s still sure it’s sparkling water because he _would_ ) before offering a hand, murmuring, “Okay, do you want to dance?”

Opening her mouth to answer, she finds she doesn’t actually have the words just then.  She takes his hand, follows him out onto the dance floor.  “I thought you only danced with creepy sexy vampires,” she says softly as he guides her free hand to his shoulder.

“Sometimes, I make exceptions,” he responds, smiling.

“Oh, that’s kind of you,” she snarks.  A moment later, she whispers confidentially, “I’m gonna embarrass you.”

The movements he leads her through are vaguely familiar.  “I’m used to it, don’t worry,” he grins. Wounded, she _accidentally_ steps on his toe.  “Cute,” he grunts, smile fading.  His grasp is like a brand anywhere he touches, and now she’s _very_ aware of how _thin_ the dress’s fabric is.  “You’re thinking too much,” he murmurs.

“You’re not telepathic, are you?” she demands.  “’Cause that would be terrifying.”

He doesn’t answer, and, with some moderate amount of focus (no small feat), she’s able to follow his rhythm.  Without warning, he nudges her into a slow turn, and the only things she can think about are their fingers and the way her dress fans out around her legs with the momentum.  When he pulls her back, she’s closer than she’d been before, their chests mere inches apart, and she’s almost afraid to look up at him because his face is so _close_. 

This was probably a bad idea.

_Continuing_ is probably a bad idea.

In spite of these very loud warnings, she drops her forehead onto his shoulder and lets her arm drape loosely around him, fingers tracing lazily and out of time against his back.  She can feel his slow, steady breathing into her hair.

It’s not too long before she can’t stay silent any longer— _this is weird_ , she convinces herself—and she turns her head, so her cheek is still resting against his shoulder, and mumbles, “Where did you learn to dance?”

“High school,” he answers simply.

The song ends, so she files that away for later and follows him back to their table.

“Hey,” she says, hand securely tucked in his elbow.  “I… really don’t mind the total lack of respect you have for my personal space.”

Out of the corner of her eye, she can see his private smile.  “If you say so, Earp,” he responds warmly.

**Author's Note:**

> If you liked this, drop by my [Tumblr](http://johnisntevendead.tumblr.com) and tell me! Or send prompts... headcanons... indistinct wailing...


End file.
